


Brothers in Arms

by Hellesgift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Roleplay, Safewords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-12-02
Updated: 2007-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellesgift/pseuds/Hellesgift





	1. Chapter 1

First Lieutenant Sam Winchester looked up when he sensed a presence at the entrance to his cramped tent. For a second he couldn't focus, saw a man in jeans and leather, no uniform, made him think--

\--but then his vision cleared and he nodded briskly, "Sergeant, come in."

He looked back at the paperwork--god, were they trying to finish the job with papercuts?--until the firm steps stopped in front of him. Without looking up, he knew the man would be at attention. 

"At ease, Sergeant." No movement until he looked up, and then a hidden half-smile as the position changed. Cocky. The man was always cocky. Two bullets, three months' rehab...and nothing seemed to have changed.

"You look good." It was more than he'd meant to say, and he almost stuttered as he hurried to add, "You ready to be back?"

"They sent me back, sir." No hesitation before the title. Insubordination had never been an issue...well, never more than that once.

"Let me rephrase that." The lieutenant stood, unfolding to his full height and watching as, as usual, it had no effect on the other man. "Are you ready to be back?" 

As had been the case since their first battle together, he knew he didn't have to explain the question any further. His sergeant stood straighter again, almost shifting to attention. "I'm good, sir."

"You always have been." Winchester moved around the desk till they were standing side by side. The sergeant stiffened slightly but didn't move, not even when his commanding officer leaned in, looming over him, his voice low and tight. "You're a good soldier, Sergeant. You do what I ask, what Uncle Sam asks, and you come back for more. Never disobeyed an order..." Winchester trailed off, stepped in closer till he could feel the tripwire tension in the other man's rigid stance. "Never disobeyed my orders...until it really counted."

"Sir--"

"Attention, Sergeant!" Winchester snapped, quiet and deadly, and he smiled as the other man reacted without thought, as he had always obeyed...always but once.

"So now I'm faced with a difficult leadership question." Winchester continued, still fully inside the other man's space and looking down into his averted green eyes. "Do I punish you for saving my life? Or do I reward you for disobeying my order?"

"Sir..." This time the lieutenant waited, but the response died unspoken.

"I told you to leave me." The lieutenant remembered that much clearly, even through the hazy red mist of pain and expected death. "I ordered you to get the men out of danger--"

"I did!" At the sudden interruption, the air in the room seemed to shiver. " _Sir_. I did, sir."

Winchester knew that from the reports. His sergeant had led the men to safety, delegated control and then...

"I ordered you away, but you came back." He waited for another interruption, but there was none forthcoming. In the quivering silence, images from that afternoon kept coming back. The screaming pain in his leg. The thunder of the shells, the press of the dark. And then hands. Hands on his leg adjusting the bandage they had applied only--what, minutes? hours?--before. Hands on his face, on his arms, his chest, holding him as if they could keep him there. A voice begging him to hold on. His sergeant's voice, ordering him to live as if he had that right, as if the chain of command were broken forever. And then the world shifting, agony whiting out existence as he was turned over, moved, handled, lifted. 

He thought he could remember breath along his neck, deep, painful groans that he couldn't explain but wanted to echo. He didn't know when the other bullet hit. The reports couldn't help him here, since he didn't remember and since the victim had been unconscious for almost two weeks after. The reports merely said that, despite a bullet in the chest, the sergeant had still managed to pull his lieutenant to safety before passing out. The report recommended a medal. The report didn't know what Lieutenant Winchester knew.

"I ordered you away," he repeated, and if anything the man's stance grew more rigid, more correct. 

Without thinking, Winchester raised his hand, resting it lightly over the right shoulder where he knew the wound to be. His sergeant twitched once, convulsively, and then stilled. "I need to see," he said, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, as if he had some sort of medical training that would be more valuable than a well-staffed field hospital and a medevac to the States. There was no movement in response, and the lieutenant took that as permission, as another ordered obeyed.

It was strange opening the uniform from the other side, but his fingers didn't hesitate until they had all the buttons undone. His hand spanned from clavicle to sternum, and he felt the rapid heartbeat against the heel of his hand like fists pounding to get out. "Remove your t-shirt." 

A hitching breath under his hand was the only answer for a long moment, and then the sergeant shrugged out of his combat jacket and reached down to pull his t-shirt over his head. Two quick movements had both shirts folded neatly. He placed them on the chair beside the desk, then returned to attention, staring resolutely in front of him.

The wound looked horrendous. Lieutenant Winchester hadn't let himself think about it, and now he realized that was a mistake. He needed some sort of preparation for this...as if he could have prepared for the sight of the angry scarred mass on the man's shoulder. Stepping aside, he checked the entry wound, smaller and almost unnoticeable, below the shoulderblade. His hand was shaking as he reached up again, placed long fingers gently, tentatively against warm skin. The chest beneath his hand heaved once on a sudden gasp, then was still.

"This shouldn't have happened. Not for m--"

"Don't." The word was sharp, cut out of anger and air, and more of an order than the Lieutenant had ever managed, even after over a year at the front. "Sir. Don't you say that. Don't you try to tell me how to...how to do my job. I take care of my men. I take care of you. Don't you--"

He couldn't listen, he couldn't hear this, it was gross insubordination and, worse, it was the truth. So Lieutenant Winchester acted on instinct, leaning down to shut the man up, lips hard, teeth drawing blood, and then a softening, the mouth opening beneath his, obedient. That thought pulled him out. He stepped back sharply. "I'm..." not _sorry_. Not that. But... "I'm your superior officer. I can't..." He stopped, shook his head. "I shouldn't."

For a long moment their eyes met, battling, like hand-to-hand combat and Winchester remembered the way the sergeant's hands had felt on him, guiding him through their private sessions, teaching the college boy everything he'd need to know to command men already hardened by battle. 

Then green eyes softened over a sudden grin. "I always gotta teach you baby-lieutenants everything, don't I?" The voice was low and lush with humor and lust and something else, something that echoed of desperation, firefights, and forever. 

"What's the first thing I taught you, Lieutenant?" The soft question was an obscene counterpart to the hard body suddenly against his, and Winchester could barely think to answer.

"Take...take care of your men--"

"--and your men will take care of you," his sergeant finished, pushing them both back against the desk, which sank, gave, soft under his hands, mattress settling, the sound of the door--  
 _  
What?_

Sam opened his eyes quickly, reaching out to steady them both before completely awake, only to find his hands waving wildly in mid air. Dean was smirking at him from the doorway, takeout bag in one hand, already shrugging his jacket off. "Hey there, Sammy," he smirked, dropping the food on the rickety table by the door and walking over to the foot of the bed. He glanced sardonically at the lurid jacket of their latest hotel-room freebie: _Strike Force Fury_. At the moment, the book seemed to be floating, its ridiculously phallic cover hovering a few inches over Sam's groin. 

Dean snorted. "That a missile in your pocket, or you just happy to see me?" His jacket slid to the floor in a heap, and he raised his hands to the top button of his shirt. Sam was up and across the room before even the first button could pop free. 

Dean grunted as they hit the wall, but he didn't struggle, just looked at Sam with quickly darkening eyes. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder for a second, remembering a phantom bullet, and then he dropped his hand lower. 

Bracing his body against Dean's, he leaned farther in, breaking eye contact only to move his lips to Dean's ear. "At ease, soldier." Dean's breath huffed out sharply, and Sam grinned as, beneath his hand, Dean came defiantly to attention.


	2. Chapter 2

Still with his mouth inches from Dean's ear, Sam whispered harshly, "You saved my life. That would deserve a medal...and more..." he nipped Dean's ear lightly, feeling the reaction beneath his hand, "...but I don't like the way you did it." Sam waited just a second, waited till he could feel the tension start in Dean's body, then he gave them both an out. "Disobeying my direct order, Sergeant. I can't let HQ reward that without a little...reckoning...between us first."

When he stepped back, he could see a tiny flicker of caution warring with the wash of lust in Dean's features, and he waited till the flicker faded and died, thanking whatever gods or demons were responsible for Dean's libido...and not for the first time. While he waited, he watched as Dean's breathing quickened, chest heaving as if they'd been training, belly fluttering against Sam's wrist as Sam slowly, gently moved his fingers, squeezing and releasing until Dean wouldn't remember why caution had ever been warranted, wouldn't be thinking of now, or soon, or one-year-deals. Sam waited until he knew that Dean's entire world was centered in the two of them, their small hotel room, the Lieutenant's tent...

...and then he spoke, low and sure, "I think some punishment is in order, Sergeant."

Dean's whole body jerked like he'd been hit, a pre-emptive flinch, but his eyes got impossibly darker. When Sam stepped forward, replacing his hand with his leg just a little too roughly, Dean groaned and dropped his head back, baring his throat, looking up into Sam's hot gaze with eyes that were glazing over.

Another almost-too-hard thrust, and Dean's tongue flickered over his lips. He closed his eyes and tilted his head away, and Sam had to work hard not to end it right then, because as gorgeous as Dean was all cocky and confident and  _Dean_ , there was nothing more beautiful in the world than Dean letting Sam take over.

And if he had the demons and gods of Dean's libido to thank for this display--Dean spread out before him like a sacrifice--well, he also had to thank that dark kink in Dean's wiring that usually pissed Sam off so badly. Sam knew that somewhere under the bravado a small part of Dean always expected punishment. Some part of him thought he deserved it.

And as much as he hated that part of Dean's psyche, as much as he hated what had caused that kink in the first place, Sam hated the next part even more: Some part of Dean thought that he might receive absolution, a measure of forgiveness, if he just took his punishment like a man. Like a good soldier. That he could win some sort of approval if he was just tough enough, if he  _took_ enough, if he just sacrificed enough for the cause. If he fought for the world and took care of Sammy and didn't think of himself...well, then he might earn that elusive metaphorical medal.

Thinking about Dad was not conducive to sexing Dean up, so Sam didn't follow that thought to its usual angry response. Instead he let himself fall into the fantasy in a way they usually didn't get to have.  _We're brothers, Sam...that ain't kinky enough?_ Dean had said once, and they didn't really play very often. But by the way Dean was leaning back, baring his throat like a beta wolf...maybe they needed this now.

And as much as Sam hated the fact that, in some deep hidden part of Dean's soul, this wasn't play...he was perfectly willing to use it.

Reaching to grab one wrist and then the other, Sam pulled Dean's hands up to cross them over his head against the wall. He kept his left hand over the crossed wrists, no real need to hold them up since Dean was cooperating so prettily. His right hand he lowered again, back to tease and pull at Dean's cock through his jeans. A sudden hard thud brought his gaze up quickly, and he growled, "You're tied there, soldier," before moving his left hand down to cup behind Dean's head, effectively eliminating the chance of any further impact. "You don't get to choose your punishment, Sergeant. I do. Question is, can you take it?"

It wasn't much of question: Dean had taken Sam's worst a couple of times now, and this time Sam was certainly not planning on shooting him. But Dean straightened up a little, shifting his hands up the wall and holding them there rigid. "Sir, yes sir." It wasn't snapped out loud like a parade response. It was quiet. Personal.

Sam felt everything in him respond to those three words.

A long measuring look at the way Dean was displayed against the wall convinced Sam that a change was needed. The tight stretch in Dean's arms and chest was pretty, but it was only half the picture. "Gonna need access to your back, soldier," he whispered harshly, and watched as Dean swallowed heavily. Running his hands over Dean's ribs, down to his waist, he reached up to feel the rock-hard muscles of Dean's lower back, slipping his fingers briefly below Dean's belt. Yes, he definitely needed access to all of Dean.

"Over there," he ordered, keeping his voice hard, and he didn't reach out to help when his light push made Dean stumble slightly. Giving Dean no time to adjust, Sam maneuvered him to the door of the bathroom. The frame was just a little too low, but it wasn't the architect's fault that they were both big men. Grabbing Dean's hands roughly, he pulled them up to touch the door frame, then shifted them so that the wrists crossed again. Dean's fingers turned backwards, hooking over the frame, and Sam nodded where Dean couldn't see his approval. "I'm gonna leave you tied here, Sergeant. You can't move, unless I cut you down. You understand that?"

Another full-body shudder from Dean. "Yes sir."

"And I'm going to punish you...don't you doubt that for a second."

Dean bucked slightly into empty air, his eyes wild.

"And you're going to take it, aren't you?" Sam ran one hand over Dean's exposed side, coming to rest with his palm over Dean's hipbone and his fingers splayed across Dean's ribs. "You're going to take whatever I hand out, because you know you deserve it."

A high, cut-off breath, almost a moan, and Dean nodded once, sharply.

"I can't hear you, Sergeant! Are you going to take whatever punishment I deem appropriate?"

"Sir." Little more than a whisper, but said with the kind of intensity that sends demons back to hell.

Sam smiled coldly. "And if it gets too much...if you can't take it..." He paused, waiting for an interruption that didn't come. "Then you're not the soldier I think you are, Sergeant. There's no escape from this. And from now on, you only speak when I tell you to."

Dean's eyes were wide and dark in the fading light through the heavy curtains, and Sam waited for a protest, a reminder that younger brother Sammy had no place playing this kind of game. Slowly, Dean's eyes fluttered closed, but still no words, and Sam remembered who he was, what the Lieutenant had just ordered. "Do you understand me, Sergeant?"

A long, surrendering sigh. "Yes, sir."


End file.
